Autoboyography
Page 61
Things have been strained since he asked his parents—hypothetically—what they would do if one of their children were gay. Apparently, his lack of blatant heterosexuality had been noticed already, and discussed. He dropped a match straight into a pool of gasoline.
That was a couple weeks ago. His mom is talking to him again, but just barely. His dad is never home because it seems he always needs to be somewhere else, helping some other family in crisis. His grandparents haven’t stopped by in weeks. Aaron is mostly oblivious; Faith knows something is wrong but not what. Only Lizzy understands the specifics and—to his desperate heartbreak—is giving him a wide berth as if he’s Patient Zero, infectious.
What’s terrible is that Sebastian isn’t even sure he deserves to be heartbroken. Heartbroken implies that he’s innocent in this, the victim in some tragic romance and not largely responsible for his own pain. He’s the one who went behind his parents’ backs in the first place. He’s the one who fell in love with and then broke up with Tanner.
Seeing Autumn shook something loose in him, and he can’t go inside and pretend that everything’s fine, that hearing what Tanner did to protect him didn’t just turn his world upside down.
He’s always been good at pretending, but he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore.
• • •
When the curtains have opened and closed for the third time, Sebastian finally goes back in. His mom doesn’t waste any time, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, she’s on his heels.
“Autumn left?”
He wanted to go straight back to his room, but she’s blocking the staircase. He walks into the kitchen instead, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. The USB drive burns a hole in his pocket. Sebastian’s hands are practically shaking.
He drains the glass in a few seconds and places it in the sink. “Yes,” he says. “She left.”
His mom circles the kitchen island to turn on the mixer, and the scents of butter and chocolate fill the air. She’s making cupcakes. Yesterday it was cookies. The day before it was biscotti. Her routine hasn’t shifted at all. Their family isn’t falling apart. Nothing is different.
“I wasn’t aware you two were friends.”
He doesn’t want to answer questions about Autumn, but knows it will only bring more if he doesn’t. “I was only a mentor to her in class.”
There’s a heavy silence. In theory he was only a mentor to Tanner, too, so that answer doesn’t hold much reassurance. But his mom doesn’t press; he and his parents don’t converse anymore—they exchange pleasantries like please pass the potatoes, or I need you to mow the lawn—and Sebastian feels like they’re losing that muscle. He always expected his relationship with them to shift over time as he had more experiences, was able to relate to them as adults in ways he never understood before. But he didn’t expect to see his parents’ sharp edges and limitations so soon, and so quickly. Like discovering the world really is flat; suddenly there is no other side of wonder and adventure to explore. Instead, you disappear over the edge.
With the mixer off, she watches him from across the counter. “I’ve never heard you mention her before.”
Does she not realize he’s never really talked about any girl before, not even Manda? “She dropped off something for Fujita.”
Sebastian watches as she connects the dots. Her suspicion rises like a dark sun across her face. “Autumn knows him, doesn’t she?”
Him.
“They’re friends.”
“So she wasn’t coming by about this?”
There’s only one reviled “him,” just as there is only one unmentionable “this.”
Irritation flares in his chest that they won’t even use his name. “His name is Tanner.” Saying it makes his heart itch in his chest, and he wants to reach in, claw at it roughly.
“You think I don’t know his name? Is that a joke?”
Suddenly her face is red from her hairline to her collar; her eyes are glassy and bright. Sebastian has never seen his mom so angry. “I don’t even know how we got here, Sebastian. This? What you’re going through?” She stabs the air with savagely curled finger quotes around the words “going through.” “This is your own doing. Heavenly Father is not responsible for your decisions. It is your free will alone that deprives you of happiness.” She picks up the wooden spoon, shoving it into the batter. “And if you think I’m being harsh, talk to your dad about it. You have no idea how much you’ve wounded him.”
But he can’t talk to his dad, because Dan Brother is never home. Since that fated dinner, he stays at the church after work, or makes house call after house call, coming home only after everyone is in bed. Dinners used to be full of chatter. Now it’s the scraping of silverware and the occasional homework discussion, with an empty chair at the end of the table.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, ever the repentant son. Without question, he knows her anger comes from the intensity of her love. Imagine, he thinks, worrying that your family would be separated from you for eternity. Imagine truly believing that God loves all of His Children, except when they love each other the wrong way.
To think God loves the trees, his brain paraphrases from a book he read once, but condemns that blossoming thing they do in spring.
Sebastian circles the center island, moving closer. “She really was bringing something for the class.”
“I thought you were done with that.”
“I need to critique one of the manuscripts Mr. Fujita hasn’t read yet.” None of this is an outright lie.
“But you’re not seeing him again? Or talking to him?”
“I haven’t talked to him in weeks.” This part is also true. Sebastian has stayed away from the school, away from any place they went together. He hasn’t hiked. He wants to tutor but knows the temptation would be too strong; it’d be too easy to stop by his house again, wait for him outside of class.
He doesn’t even have any old voice messages left. He deleted them only minutes before his father confiscated his phone.
“Good,” she says, visibly calmer. She unplugs the mixer and begins to scrape the side of the bowl, scooping batter into waiting baking cups. “You owe Mr. Fujita for everything he’s done, so you can read those books for him, if you have time. You have your meeting with Brother Young and the last of your interview requests to complete.” His mom is happiest when she has a list of things she can check off, delegate, and organize, and Sebastian lets her, even if it’s the only way she’ll talk to him. “Finish your obligations, and then, please, let’s move on.”
• • •
Together, Brother Young and Sebastian kneel on the floor and pray that Sebastian can be strong, that he can become an example again as he goes out into the world, that he can still make some good out of all of this.
He can tell Brother Young feels better when they stand, because he has that look of a man who has done something meaningful with his day. He embraces Sebastian, offers his ear anytime, tells him he’s proud of him. He says it with the wizened clarity of a much older man, but he’s only twenty-two.
If anything, once the elder leaves, Sebastian feels worse. Praying is a reflex, a ritual, a part of him—but it doesn’t hold the same promise of relief it used to. Dinner is called, but Sebastian isn’t hungry. Lately, he eats because depriving his body seems like one more sin, and the cart is nearly toppling with them as it is.
That was a couple weeks ago. His mom is talking to him again, but just barely. His dad is never home because it seems he always needs to be somewhere else, helping some other family in crisis. His grandparents haven’t stopped by in weeks. Aaron is mostly oblivious; Faith knows something is wrong but not what. Only Lizzy understands the specifics and—to his desperate heartbreak—is giving him a wide berth as if he’s Patient Zero, infectious.
What’s terrible is that Sebastian isn’t even sure he deserves to be heartbroken. Heartbroken implies that he’s innocent in this, the victim in some tragic romance and not largely responsible for his own pain. He’s the one who went behind his parents’ backs in the first place. He’s the one who fell in love with and then broke up with Tanner.
Seeing Autumn shook something loose in him, and he can’t go inside and pretend that everything’s fine, that hearing what Tanner did to protect him didn’t just turn his world upside down.
He’s always been good at pretending, but he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore.
• • •
When the curtains have opened and closed for the third time, Sebastian finally goes back in. His mom doesn’t waste any time, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, she’s on his heels.
“Autumn left?”
He wanted to go straight back to his room, but she’s blocking the staircase. He walks into the kitchen instead, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. The USB drive burns a hole in his pocket. Sebastian’s hands are practically shaking.
He drains the glass in a few seconds and places it in the sink. “Yes,” he says. “She left.”
His mom circles the kitchen island to turn on the mixer, and the scents of butter and chocolate fill the air. She’s making cupcakes. Yesterday it was cookies. The day before it was biscotti. Her routine hasn’t shifted at all. Their family isn’t falling apart. Nothing is different.
“I wasn’t aware you two were friends.”
He doesn’t want to answer questions about Autumn, but knows it will only bring more if he doesn’t. “I was only a mentor to her in class.”
There’s a heavy silence. In theory he was only a mentor to Tanner, too, so that answer doesn’t hold much reassurance. But his mom doesn’t press; he and his parents don’t converse anymore—they exchange pleasantries like please pass the potatoes, or I need you to mow the lawn—and Sebastian feels like they’re losing that muscle. He always expected his relationship with them to shift over time as he had more experiences, was able to relate to them as adults in ways he never understood before. But he didn’t expect to see his parents’ sharp edges and limitations so soon, and so quickly. Like discovering the world really is flat; suddenly there is no other side of wonder and adventure to explore. Instead, you disappear over the edge.
With the mixer off, she watches him from across the counter. “I’ve never heard you mention her before.”
Does she not realize he’s never really talked about any girl before, not even Manda? “She dropped off something for Fujita.”
Sebastian watches as she connects the dots. Her suspicion rises like a dark sun across her face. “Autumn knows him, doesn’t she?”
Him.
“They’re friends.”
“So she wasn’t coming by about this?”
There’s only one reviled “him,” just as there is only one unmentionable “this.”
Irritation flares in his chest that they won’t even use his name. “His name is Tanner.” Saying it makes his heart itch in his chest, and he wants to reach in, claw at it roughly.
“You think I don’t know his name? Is that a joke?”
Suddenly her face is red from her hairline to her collar; her eyes are glassy and bright. Sebastian has never seen his mom so angry. “I don’t even know how we got here, Sebastian. This? What you’re going through?” She stabs the air with savagely curled finger quotes around the words “going through.” “This is your own doing. Heavenly Father is not responsible for your decisions. It is your free will alone that deprives you of happiness.” She picks up the wooden spoon, shoving it into the batter. “And if you think I’m being harsh, talk to your dad about it. You have no idea how much you’ve wounded him.”
But he can’t talk to his dad, because Dan Brother is never home. Since that fated dinner, he stays at the church after work, or makes house call after house call, coming home only after everyone is in bed. Dinners used to be full of chatter. Now it’s the scraping of silverware and the occasional homework discussion, with an empty chair at the end of the table.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, ever the repentant son. Without question, he knows her anger comes from the intensity of her love. Imagine, he thinks, worrying that your family would be separated from you for eternity. Imagine truly believing that God loves all of His Children, except when they love each other the wrong way.
To think God loves the trees, his brain paraphrases from a book he read once, but condemns that blossoming thing they do in spring.
Sebastian circles the center island, moving closer. “She really was bringing something for the class.”
“I thought you were done with that.”
“I need to critique one of the manuscripts Mr. Fujita hasn’t read yet.” None of this is an outright lie.
“But you’re not seeing him again? Or talking to him?”
“I haven’t talked to him in weeks.” This part is also true. Sebastian has stayed away from the school, away from any place they went together. He hasn’t hiked. He wants to tutor but knows the temptation would be too strong; it’d be too easy to stop by his house again, wait for him outside of class.
He doesn’t even have any old voice messages left. He deleted them only minutes before his father confiscated his phone.
“Good,” she says, visibly calmer. She unplugs the mixer and begins to scrape the side of the bowl, scooping batter into waiting baking cups. “You owe Mr. Fujita for everything he’s done, so you can read those books for him, if you have time. You have your meeting with Brother Young and the last of your interview requests to complete.” His mom is happiest when she has a list of things she can check off, delegate, and organize, and Sebastian lets her, even if it’s the only way she’ll talk to him. “Finish your obligations, and then, please, let’s move on.”
• • •
Together, Brother Young and Sebastian kneel on the floor and pray that Sebastian can be strong, that he can become an example again as he goes out into the world, that he can still make some good out of all of this.
He can tell Brother Young feels better when they stand, because he has that look of a man who has done something meaningful with his day. He embraces Sebastian, offers his ear anytime, tells him he’s proud of him. He says it with the wizened clarity of a much older man, but he’s only twenty-two.
If anything, once the elder leaves, Sebastian feels worse. Praying is a reflex, a ritual, a part of him—but it doesn’t hold the same promise of relief it used to. Dinner is called, but Sebastian isn’t hungry. Lately, he eats because depriving his body seems like one more sin, and the cart is nearly toppling with them as it is.
